The One To Survive
by Ophelia's Flood
Summary: Rated for language and nothing else. Mark realizes exactly what it means to be the one of us to survive. NO CHARACTER DEATH. Strong RogerMimi.
1. Not To Be Numb

**Author's Note:** This is my first Rent fanfic – my first good, finished one, at least. I had to go through the customary slew of ideas that seem great in your head but refuse to be transferred to the paper before I received this in a rush of inspiration. NO CHARACTER DEATH, I PROMISE! I KNOW what it looks like, but you have to read to the end. If you read all the way to the end, it makes sense. I swear. Or, at least, it makes sense in my head. A lot of things make sense in my head that don't seem exactly normal…

**Important Author's Note:** I have never seen the Broadway show, only the movie, so all my characterizations are based thereon. Don't like it, buy me some Broadway tickets. I love the Roger/Mimi pairing, so there are heavy hints of that in there, but Mark's side of things is just too lovely to resist.

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"Your eyes…"

The chords grated on him, rang harshly in his ears, again and again, piercing his brain until he felt sure that he would go mad. He wanted to clench his hands over his ears, wanted to screw his eyes shut, wanted to fall on the floor, to shout, to cry, to scream until his voice was swallowed by darkness. But he kept his hands twisted tight in his lap, held his head up, gritted his teeth, and the song played on, and on, and on…

"Roger," he snarled, a furious scream strangled and suppressed until it escaped as a squeak, a growl that was thankfully drowned out by the insistent beeping that made the air shudder and rang in disconcerting dissension to the chords picked out on the guitar. That was what was bothering him, he thought vaguely, it was only the fact that the song wrenched at the rhythm of the heart monitor, disrupted the equipment that had forced his heart to conform to its constant sound. That was all. It was the difference between rhythm and repetition, between music and sound, that was bothering him. It was the tone of the song, and not the heartache, that made him clench his jaw so tight he felt as if his teeth would break.

He shifted in the uncomfortable plastic chair, deliberately jabbing the sharp edges into his thigh. He needed to do something to work out the anger that he could feel seething inside him like some sleeping volcano; he had never felt so violent and confined as he felt right now, and he had barely enough reason left to know that to take it out on the people around him would tear his fragile world apart, so he took out on himself. He gritted his teeth together until he could hear them grinding in his head; he tried to lacerate himself with the plastic chair, and red marks glared angrily on his hands where he had dug his nails into wrists, palms, elbows, anything that he could reach.

The door opened with a high-pitched, annoying squeal, and a black head showed itself through the opening, looking bizarrely out of place against the marble-white hospital room walls. "Hey, guys," Collins said softly; the guitar stopped in mid-twang to let him speak, and Mark released a pent-up breath at the blessed silence.

Having received no answer, the big black man opened the door further, slipping into the room, taking in the pathetic scene with widened eyes. Mark stiffened again in sympathy; he could almost see the picture that must have been in Collins' head of another hospital room, another hard white bed, another jumble of machines, another small woman tossing and turning, gasping for breath…

"Here," Mark nearly-whispered, standing up with a sudden lurch, freeing his chair. He brushed himself off with numb hands, motioning for Collins to take his seat, propped against the wall beside the door.

Collins hesitated, glancing over at the bed, staring for a moment at the similar chair there, the tight shoulders, the guitar frets and blonde head leaning over the frail form on the cot. He opened his mouth, his eyes flashing with a nervous question, ready to comfort, to console, to scream.

Mark shook his head.

The black man let out a frustrated sigh, and sank down into the empty seat, staring blankly at the ceiling above him. He waved at the door with a languid hand. "Get out of here, man," he murmured, so as not to disturb the unmoving Roger. "I know that look. You feel like you're about to explode, don't you?" Mark nodded, a tight, slashing gesture. Collins didn't look around, but he understood. "Get out of here," he whispered. "Maureen and Joanne are in the waiting room." Now he did look up into the fogged glasses, trying to discern the red eyes behind them. "You don't have to deal with this alone anymore."

Mark sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve, obstinately refusing to cry. Without a word to either of his silent friends, he turned and stormed through the door, not closing it because he knew that if he did he would slam it so hard that the doorframe would crack.

Stomping down the hallway, he faintly heard the guitar pick up again, playing the same song over and over, fighting valiantly against the overwhelming monotony of the heart monitor, and losing.

He rounded a corner, his blurry gaze focusing in immediately on a cluster of disgustingly green chairs, the only spot of color in this new dimension of white and gray that he seemed to have plummeted into. The two occupants of the chairs jumped up as he came into view – Joanne (he could tell by her dark skin; tears had now blurred his vision so completely he could see little more than colors and vague shapes) sat back down again, but Maureen continued the motion that had carried her to her feet, turning it into a charge down the hallway. She swept Mark into her arms when she reached him; too tired to pull away, too shattered to know the indignity of it, he broke down and cried, clutching her arms with all the anger he had not dared unleash on Roger's fragile spirit. He heard Maureen talking to him, muttering something, but he could not understand; he didn't care anymore, didn't want to know what she was saying, didn't want to hear anything, ever again. He wanted to fold in on himself, to disappear, to never have to face that hideous beeping that pounded, pounded, pounded along with his broken heart.

He felt a hand stroking his back, gently, a pair of cold hands prying his arms from their stranglehold around Maureen's neck, a gentle grip at his elbow, guiding him, steering him forcefully, pushing him down into one of the chairs that Maureen had so recently vacated. He bit his tongue to stifle his harsh sobs, sensing that he must be strong, he must be calm, for the sake of the girls.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to pull himself together. He felt his glasses move; someone was tugging at them, pulling them, and years of bullying and broken lenses moved his hand to stop them. The world dissolved for a moment into wavering, blending smears of color; then there was cold metal on his face, and the universe returned to its proper shape, and he could see more clearly than he had been able to for the past hour.

"Your glasses were all fogged up and wet, honey," Maureen said by way of explanation, as Mark watched Joanne throw a damp rag into the trash. "I don't know how you could see anything."

"I didn't want to," he said harshly, not in the mood to mince words, to beat delicately around the bush. _Shove diplomacy up your ass,_ he growled silently at the universe. _This hurts too damn much to talk about for long._

"Mark?" There was gentle hand on his shoulder, squeezing, trying to get his attention. "Mark, hon, can you hear me?"

"Mimi's dying," he blurted out suddenly, brushing Maureen's hand away with a callous shove. He heard Joanne let out a strangled gasp, as though from immensely far away; she had known that, of course, had known ever since Mark had managed to make a barely coherent phone call to the loft, where Collins had been staying. She had known ever since Mark had managed to babble out that Mimi, who had been looking sick, had fainted and had a fever and they were taking her to the hospital. She had known for two days; but hearing it from him, here, made it painful, made it certain, made it real.

Maureen was trying to hug him again, but he shoved her away, wormed out of her grasp, started pacing back and forth, back and forth, with all the fury of a caged animal. "She's dying," he said again, harshly, violently. "I don't know what the hell it is, I don't understand a fucking word the doctor said, but she's going to die and Roger isn't much better off and damn it all to fucking hell I can't take this anymore!" He slammed his fists against the wall, breathing hard, pressing his forehead to the cold plastic. Joanne had shrunk back into her chair with every word as though it were a blow, and now crumpled in on herself, hands clamped tight over her mouth, shaking with silent tears. Maureen half-rose, her own eyes glistening, apparently torn between her distraught lover and her homicidal friend; pain won out over anger, and she sank back down, putting a comforting arm around Joanne's shaking shoulders.

"It's going to be fine." The drama queen's high-pitched, musical voice was harsh and soft and raw. "I-It's going t-to be all right – it's going to be –"

"It's going to be far from fucking fine," Mark choked out between clenched teeth, "and you damn well know it. Don't pretend – there's no use –" his throat closed with raw emotion and he could not finish the thought.

There was a violent clatter of metal from down the hall, a cavernous silence, a keening whimper that turned into a heartrending howl that managed to choke out the words of a familiar song between sobs. Mark jerked away from the wall as if he had been burned; Maureen froze, her mouth hanging open, and even Joanne sucked in a shuddering breath and did not let it go. Mark was flying around the corner – flying – feet thundering, through the door, hitting it with his shoulder so hard it swung back and slammed into the wall –

The sight that met his eyes knocked the breath out of him, and he simply stood as though in death, staring.

Collins was on his feet, his hands locked around Roger's waist, the black muscles bulging to restrain his friend as Roger, kicked, bit, scratched, fought like an animal gone mad to return to Mimi's side. The guitar lay against the wall; a dull, numb corner of Mark's mind realized that three strings were broken and to replace them would cost more money than they could spare. The chairs, he noted with a small satisfaction, had been kicked aside and lay on the ground. Fitting revenge.

It was a few minutes before the noise penetrated – the high, constant siren wailing that made his vision blur and his pulse race, that made his fingers twitch to cover his ears, that resonated in his soul but was not quite loud enough to drown out the screaming in his head.

_Mimi is dead. _

Say it again; the first time was nothing, was sound without meaning, words without form.

_Mimi is dead._

Still nothing. Mark shook his head in frustration. Shouldn't that mean something? Shouldn't it be more than just a garbled pulse of noise? The words meant something individually, he knew that they should be understood. But put together they could not possibly be comprehended or felt, they were too staggering, to shattering, too deadly.

"Mark, help me!" Collins grunted, heaving backwards against Roger's fury. Mark moved mechanically, woodenly, to his big friend's aid; but no sooner did Mark touch Roger's arm than the songwriter went limp, clutching weakly at Collins' wrists, tears streaming down his face. His mouth hung open, and his eyes were glazed and blank; he did not seem to be aware that he was crying, or even that he was breathing.

"Take him home," Mark said lifelessly. "Make sure he takes his AZT. I'll stay here –" even in his own ears, his voice sounded as though it was spoken by a statue or a ghost. "—I'll stay here for a little while."

Collins looked at him dubiously, but relaxed his grip, taking Roger gently by the shoulder and steering him towards the door. The other man walked as though in a leaden trance; he would have tripped over the threshold, had not Maureen and Joanne appeared to catch him. Slinging one of his arms over each of their shoulders, they supported him out, both sobbing, their charge strangely silent.

He did not know how long he stood there, staring at the lifeless hands that were brown against the stiff white cot, at the eyes that would not open, at the curls spread out across the pillow wet with Roger's tears. He did not know how long he stood there, convincing himself with iron will that the could hear her breathing, telling himself constantly that she had just now exhaled, that she would take another breath in only a moment, that the machine was malfunctioning; his chest ached, he was holding his breath, waiting for the high keening to break. Maybe it was a nurse who forced him out of the room; maybe it was Collins, returned from the loft. He didn't know, and he couldn't find it in himself to care. All he knew was that, after an indeterminate amount of time, he stood in the unnaturally silent loft and stared around at the darkness and prayed that it might drown him.

It was too quiet.

A sudden fear jolted his sluggish heart, and he moved forward, crossing the loft with jerking, mechanical steps, mouth open, gasping for air because he felt suddenly that the world was closing in on him, pressing down on his chest, and he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe –

He rammed the bathroom door open with his shoulder, and it crashed into him like a punch in the stomach, a blow to the face – there was red, red everywhere, white tile Oh my God, the floor had once been white – red now, all pulsing red, shimmering red, red that clutched at his ankles, pulled him, drowned him – dear fucking God – no, another color, blond hair amid the red, green eyes gray dead lifeless gone – silver razor glinting on the edge of the sink, no, that was red, that was red too –

He fell to the floor, he screamed, he screamed as loudly as he could but he could not drown out the pulsing of his own heart as he knelt in a pool of Roger's blood and died.

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Mark woke with a start.

His hands flailed wildly – beat the air around him, clawing, grasping – _no dear God no no please let me die die why did you have to die can't breathe can't see _– it was too dark, too cold, too dark!

He thrashed violently, rolling over; there was a second of plummeting, a hard crash, he hit the ground, smacked his head against the floor and lay there, panting, breathing, only breathing. The world was dark and wavering; he felt something cold under his right hand, his fingers running along the familiar lenses. He put them back on his nose with shaking hands; he sat up, looking wildly around the loft, the moonlight-frosted window, the open fuse box, the couch with all the pillows shoved up against one side and a man-shaped depression in the cushions.

He breathed.

It was all right. He told himself that. _It's all right and if I keep thinking it, it'll be true. It's all right. Everything's fine. It was only a dream – _

_Oh God – the _dream –

His stomach lurched, and he scrambled to his feet, lunging across the loft into the dark bathroom, just in time to be violently sick. He doubled up over the toilet, rocked with tremors, as the contents of his stomach came up; he couldn't think, clenched his eyes tight shut.

The inside of his eyelids flared red – the light had come on – there was a patter of feet, a soft voice – "Mark?" – there was a gasp, a crash, and someone was standing beside him, someone had removed his glasses, was rubbing his back, and there was a high-pitched shout – "Roger! Roger, hurry, Mark's sick!"

The last of it came up, and Mark straightened up, slowly, breathing harshly, in quick bursts, as the tremors that had shaken him subsided into a fitful shivering. He didn't open his eyes; without his glasses, he wouldn't be able to see anything, anyway, and he savored the darkness.

"Mark? Mark, are you okay?"

The sweet voice crept into his fogged brain, and he wanted to cry. Instead, he opened his eyes, holding out a hand for his glasses. The smooth metal touched his palm, and he put them back on, blinking as his eyes were dazzled by light.

Mimi stood beside him, clutching a bathrobe tight around herself, looking up anxiously into his sweat-streaked face, her eyes wide with concern. Roger, shirtless and blinking sleepily, stood behind her, looking at his friend with the same furrowed brow, the same tight-lipped frown.

To see them, standing there – Mark did not even bother to turn away as he felt the tears he had suppressed escape his control and stream down his face.

Mimi moved quickly to support him as his knees gave way and he sank to the floor, sobbing shamelessly, clutching at her arm the way a child clutches his mother, with no intention of ever letting go. Roger moved around to his other side, and he felt himself being raised back up to his feet, being half-carried out of the bathroom, returned to the cold darkness of the couch. Blinking away tears, he saw Roger vanish into the bedroom and return with a blanket; he felt a sudden warmth descend on him, he heard Roger's voice faintly as though from many miles away, "He had a headache this morning. Probably just the flu or something…"

He saw Mimi's face, she was leaning over him, and there was cold hand on his forehead. "He's got a fever," she said to Roger, then turned back to him, pulling the blanket up around his shoulders. "Get some sleep, Mark," she told him sweetly, then straightened up and turned around –

Leaving, she was leaving! She was going to vanish, disappear – going to die –

"Mimi, wait!" He grabbed her sleeve in a frenzy of fear, fighting the darkness that rose to overtake him. "Don't go – promise you won't –" Roger appeared over her shoulder, his expression puzzled and frightened, his hand resting on her shoulder. "Don't leave me – either of you."

"We're just going into the other room, Mark," Mimi reassured him, folding her hand around his, stroking his fingers in a soothing motion. "We're right here if you need us. Now get some sleep; we'll see you in the morning." She managed to work his fingers free of her sleeve, and let his hand fall, standing over him as he slid swiftly into sleep. Roger led her away, stepping quietly over the creaking floor.

Mark watched them retreat out of half-closed eyes, and he felt darkness engulf him, let out a single sigh before he was reclaimed by sleep.

"Don't leave me alone…"

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If you didn't get it, Mark is sick and sleeping, and the first section of this story is a dream that he has. I was just thinking about the raw pain in his voice as he says "I'm the one of us to survive," and I wanted to write what that would mean for him.


	2. How You Thrive

**Customary Pre-Fic Rambling:** The first chapter was originally intended to be a oneshot, but I felt like it didn't end as well as I'd wanted it to, so I had to write another chapter. Now it's a twoshot. At least, it will be if I don't get anymore ideas that stay in my brain and gnaw on my frontal lobe like this one did… (A graphic image, I know, but that's what it feels like. Welcome to Plot Bunny Land, a place of magical beasts with little furry ears and big sharp teeth and a total disregard for grammar.)

**Rambling Postscript: **My promise from last chapter still stands: NO CHARACTER DEATH! As much as I love a good aching-deep-in-your-chest throat-tightening bout of angst, I've never been one for killing characters off. That's one thing I've noticed about Rent fanfiction – it's almost harder to keep characters alive than it is to let them die. Mimi and Roger, for instance – there are so many delicious ways for them to die in each other's arms that it's almost impossible for me to resist. And, of course, they're the characters I've chosen to fall in love with. Oy vey. But that's what you get for gorging on angsty fluff each and every day. Mothers, don't let your kiddies grow up to be hopeless romantic fanfic addicts!

**Stuff You Actually Need To Know:** This may get a little confusing, but please keep in mind that Mark is sick, and he's having a hard time telling reality from fantasy, to borrow a reviewer's words. Speaking of which – Review! Review! Review!

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He rocked back and forth on a gentle tide, rising and falling, ebbing and flowing with the rhythm of a beating heart. Darkness rippled around him, against him, through him; all was silent and soft and dark.

"Is he still sleeping?"

Voices murmured in the inky void, far away, like the drifting wailing of ghosts or the singing of faraway sirens, and he did not recognize them. But they disturbed him, made him shudder, made patterns of color in the darkness all around him, breached the quiet peace.

"Be quiet…"

He reached out a hand to ward them off – or at least he felt as if he did, because he could not see his hands, could not see anything, feel anything. He lifted his hands to press outward against the darkness, because he sensed that there was pain and light and noise that strove to reach him through the flimsy barrier. He wrapped himself warm in night and tried to hide, feeling a rumbling wave crest and break harmlessly, felt as though all color, all life streamed away from him, deflected by the blackness. He moved restlessly, trying to flee, trying to stay hidden, stay safe –

There was sudden, ringing crash.

"Roger!"

The darkness was broken, was torn in two by the screeching noise, and the world flooded in through the gap, mounting with each heartbeat, a centrifuge of color and sound and sensation that pulsed through him with the force of a tidal wave. His eyes snapped open, the ceiling of the loft exploding in a dazzle of sunlight above him as he sucked in a startled breath.

He blinked slowly, waiting patiently as the world's dizzy spinning around him reduced itself to a less frenzied pace, and pushed himself up on his elbows, peering over the top of the couch that he was lying on, absentmindedly kicking away blankets that twined around his feet. A shamefaced Roger stood halfway between kitchen and couch; Mimi stood across the room, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at him, and Mark could barely perceive the shards of glass that littered the ground at his feet.

"Sorry," Roger muttered sullenly, stooping down to clean up the broken glass. Mimi allowed her scorching glare to linger on him for a moment longer before glancing over at Mark, who looked up at her with a befuddled amazement.

"Morning, Mark," she said gently, "Feeling better?"

"Wha --" He remembered a vague sense of terror that had been bound up in a vivid dream; he remembered waking in the middle of the night to a feeling of breathlessness and fear, he remembered pain, an overwhelming sense of loneliness, of loss –

He let out a muffled curse as the headache that had been lurking just beneath his perception took advantage of his distraction, lancing through his head like a needle in his brain. "No, I feel like shit, actually," he grunted, letting himself fall back onto the pile of pillows shoved up against one end of the couch. The pain in his temples eased somewhat; a sudden chill crept over him, and he shivered fitfully, reaching for the blankets he had so carelessly discarded.

"You're sick," Roger observed, returning from the kitchen, dusting his hands off on the baggy T-shirt he wore. Mark didn't bother to answer, clenching his eyes tightly shut in an effort to block out the garish light of the sun. He tightened his grip on the blanket that he clenched between his fingers as a vague fear entered the back of his mind, quickly growing to surpass the chill that crept along his skin.

He frantically searched his mind, forcing his eyes open again, sitting up and trying to guess the position of the sun. "What time is it?" he asked quickly.

"Almost eleven," Mimi answered, looking puzzled. "Why?"

"Weren't we supposed to have breakfast with Collins and the girls at the Life today?"

"Well, yes," Roger admitted, looking almost ashamed, "But –" he looked over at Mimi for support.

"We canceled," she said flatly. "You're not going anywhere today, Mark, not after last night. And that includes work," she added, correctly interpreting his scowl.

"Alexi's going to kill me," he muttered sullenly.

"Alexi's a bitch," Roger growled flatly. Mark managed a small smile at the guitarist's fury; Roger was a fellow-artist, and understood the monumental tragedy of selling one's soul into corporate America. He could appreciate the fact that Buzzline, and all who supported it, were nothing more than slimy scum; he could also appreciate, however, that the same scum was providing the money that let them eat. He chafed at the Buzzline barrier as much as Mark did, if more quietly.

"Amen," Mark muttered softly. Sudden pressure built up in his throat, and he turned his head, coughing into his elbow, tears springing to his eyes with each pained breath. He regained his breath, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "You guys should go meet Collins," he said firmly, he gaze flickering between Roger and Mimi, his voice hoarse. "I'll be fine here, I promise." Mimi looked hesitant, and Roger shook his head; but both cowered as Mark gave them a withering glare. "Go," he insisted, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the back of the couch to keep himself upright. "I don't want either one of you getting sick. Besides," he added hoarsely, trying to lighten the very real fear that had settled upon him, "You must have something better to do that stick around babying me all day." He looked deeply into Roger's eyes, trying to convey the terror he felt, the pleading that echoed in his head. Things had been going so well, Mimi had been so strong and alive since her reawakening, and he could suffer any sickness so long as he was not putting his friends in danger.

The light of understanding dawned in Roger's eyes, and Mark allowed himself to relax, dropping back down onto the couch, closing his eyes again as the stomping of feet crossing the loft reached his ears. There was an argument, too low for him to make out; Mimi's voice, high-pitched and defiant, and Roger's, low and about as flexible as stone. There was a moment of wrangling; then Roger said something that shocked Mimi, made her gasp in a sudden revelation, and then there was the double-drumroll as the two walked out, and the slamming shut of the rusty door.

Mark sighed, opening his eyes again to watch in mild fascination as his breath was turned to steam, dancing and forming strange smoke-patterns on the air. That was strange, he thought idly; it didn't feel that cold at all anymore. In fact, he found that the blanket had become an oppressive heat, a suffocating warmth, but warmth was better than cold, so he dared not toss it away. A foggy blank whiteness crept into his mind, the world tilted, and he slid down, down, in the opaque, rippling waters of sleep…

"_Your eyes…"_

A sudden chill seized him, and he shivered, not quite lost to oblivion yet.

_The chords grated on him, rang harshly in his ears, again and again, piercing his brain until he felt sure that he would go mad. He wanted to clench his hands over his ears, wanted to screw his eyes shut, wanted to fall on the floor, to shout, to cry, to scream until his voice was swallowed by darkness. But he kept his hands twisted tight in his lap, held his head up, gritted his teeth, and the song played on, and on, and on…_

No. He moved restlessly, recognizing the needles and oppression of the dream, recognizing and not escaping the picture that formed itself before his eyes.

"_Mimi's dying," he blurted out suddenly, brushing Maureen's hand away with a callous shove. "I don't know what the hell it is, I don't understand a fucking word the doctor said, but she's going to die and Roger isn't much better off and damn it all to fucking hell I can't take this anymore!" He slammed his fists against the wall, breathing hard, pressing his forehead to the cold plastic. "She's dying…"_

"No!" he snapped himself back into wakefulness with a monumental effort. The sunlight beat at his eyes again, the headache pounded in his temples again, he breathed deeply and clenched his hands in his hair, shivering fitfully, his forehead damp with a cold sweat.

"Not again," he said desperately, pleadingly, curling himself up in an effort to make himself small, to disappear. "Not again. I won't live through that again. Won't –" The silence of the loft intruded on his senses, and the world suddenly seemed looming and terrible and cold and he was left by himself, alone, all alone. The shaking in his hands increased; a shout burst from him, a frenzied "Come back!", a call to Roger, to Mimi, long gone now; and, in a deeper shadow of his heart, it was a call to Angel, who could not hear him anymore.

The thought of Angel made him still and silent, as it always had, and it gave him a chance to breathe deeply, to regain control of himself. "No," he told himself shakily, but his conviction was growing with every moment. "Don't call them back. Don't let – don't let them come back." He wanted them around him, he wanted to feel them, see them hear them, to know that they were alive – "You know that they're alive," he reminded himself. The sound of his voice filled the empty echoing loft, made it less oppressive, less empty. "They were here a few minutes ago." He wanted them around him nonetheless. It was an irrational fear, a ridiculous fear, but it was fear and it demanded to be appeased. "What's more important?" he asked the wall, with a tortured harshness in his voice. "Your stupid whining fear, or Mimi's life? Would you rather sit here by yourself and deal with your paranoia, or would you rather get her sick and maybe watch her die?"

The loft was silent, and the garish sunlight that danced merrily along the window gave no reply.

"Damn it all to hell," Mark breathed, glaring harshly at the worn couch, because anger was better than fear, anger could be controlled. He lurched unsteadily to his feet, keeping the blanket clutched tight about his shoulders to ward off the freezing cold. Almost immediately the world began to waver and spin; but he sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, he clutched the back of the couch, he dug his fingers into the moth-eaten fabric and narrowed his entire world to one floorboard and managed to stay on his feet.

"Stupid," he muttered, swaying slightly, breathing harshly. "Stupid – they're not gone – they're not – not alone –" The dream was taking him again, the whirling darkness was trying to devour him again – "Alone – don't leave me alone!"

His stomach lurched, and he bit down on his tongue, hard, pain distracting him from panic. Heat moved through him in rapid bursts; a heartbeat of panting and sweating, then the warmth fled and he shivered, ice in his throat, and coughed. He was swirling, drowning – reached up for help, but there was no one there, no one there –

"No one here –" he shook his head to clear it, but that only made his headache worse. "I'm here, dammit!" Then, softer, broken, desperate, "I don't want to be alone."

Another pulse of heat thrilled through him, and he forced himself to move, shoving away from the safe anchor of the couch, his equilibrium spinning away into space. His feet hit the floor; that was all he cared about, focused intensely, all-consumingly, on making sure his feet hit the floor and he kept moving, kept moving, because if the loft was full of the sound of footsteps then it would not be so empty.

He fetched up against something solid; maybe he had fallen to floor. He could not tell anymore, up and down were bound and snarled together and he breathed deeply through his mouth to calm his beating heart. His hand touched something metal and cold; there was a doorknob. He was still on his feet, he thought vaguely. That, at least, was good. His hand clenched and the door swung open, he was reeling forward into darkness, into space –

His knees gave out, and he fell to the floor, hard. He thought his kneecaps had been shattered; it felt like they had, and he lay stretched out on the cold wood, no longer able to move. The universe swung back and forth, back and forth, like a ship tossed by the ocean, but that was alright, because the motion was calm, was soothing. He closed his eyes…

No! He couldn't sleep, couldn't dream. Not again.

Jerking himself back into wakefulness, he felt his palms flat on the floor, and pushed up, into the darkness of an unlighted room. He blinked – the fog in front of his eyes thinned somewhat, and he recognized the one wall painted a shimmering white, the camera ticking sleepily on its stand, the rumpled bed that had not been slept in for many night.

He felt for a moment as if he had fallen into some dark, cold, unknown future. He felt as though the threshold he had fallen over had not been the mere barrier between rooms. It had been some kind of rift in the fabric of the universe, and many years had passed in the last breath. He didn't know how long; maybe decades, maybe weeks. But it had been long enough, he knew, for all of his friends to leave him.

He pulled himself into something resembling a sitting position, pulling his knees up against his chest and burying his face in them. His nightmares had become memories; he recalled with vivid clarity five deathbeds, five searing pains that blurred together and became one constant, monstrous, shattering heart-monitor beeping. He remembered Mimi's last painful gasp, and Roger's suicide shortly thereafter; not by razor or pills, simply by indifference, by fading. He remembered the night Collins had disappeared, and he remembered the body found in an alleyway six months later. He remembered the car that had skidded off a rain-soaked highway and taken two lives with it in its frantic flight. He remembered Maureen and Joanne's funeral. He started to shake.

He imagined the cemetery where Angel slept, he imagined the spaces around her filling with her friends, imagined that little plot of land the monument to the Family Boheme. Imagined himself, sitting amidst a circle of inscriptions all staring at him, felt himself shuddering, as silent and cold as a headstone, as shallow and lifeless as a grave. He was crying, but he didn't notice; he couldn't remember moving, but he must have turned the camera on, because pictures were flickering against the whitewashed wall, memories made huge and bloated and paraded in the silent dark.

Maureen cooed naughty endearments and played with Joanne's hair, despite her Pookie's efforts to swat her away.

Collins and Angel strolled arm-and-arm down a busy boulevard, barely glancing at each other, but with such gentleness and reverence where their hands touched that it was almost unbearable.

Roger sat on the loft's balcony, his feet swinging out into space, strumming his guitar, and Mimi stood beside him, singing.

Angel twirled Mimi around in the middle of Times Square, while New Years festivities carried on in the distance. Collins and Roger stood nearby; the guitarist had a sullen scowl on his face, keeping one eye on a drunken Maureen. The big black man watched his lover and his friend dance and threw his head back, laughing.

Mark himself appeared on the screen, yanked into a tight headlock by Roger, while Maureen narrated with expressions so dirty that the sound had been cut from the clip altogether. Roger knuckled the top of his friend's head, then pulled the end of the infamous scarf like a noose. Mark obligingly fell down dead, and the camera dropped to film him on the floor, tongue sticking out theatrically. An empty plastic cup soared in from offscreen and smacked him on the head; a laughing Joanne and Collins came into view, Mark leaped at them in fake fury, there was a burst of laughter and the frame shook and flickered and went dark.

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"Pooookie!"

The obnoxious sing-song shout sounded slightly tinny through the rusted door of the loft. The old iron thing squeaked open, and Maureen poked her head into the Artists' Lair, as she referred to it in her mind. It did indeed look like an animal had been through the place; clothes were discarded on the dusty floor, Roger's guitar enshrined in empty cereal boxes, and a mound of dishes in the sink so high that she felt as though she should walk on her tiptoes lest they fall.

"Oh Maaark-eeee!" she sang again, louder this time, a half-step up. She was now rivaling on the pitch only audible to small, furry animals. "Oh Marky, where aarre you?"

There was still no answer. It occurred to her to be worried, but the notion was discarded after a moment's consideration. Instead, she swept across the loft to the door of Mark's room, throwing it open with a royal flick of her hand, as though she expected to be met with a throng of worshippers on the other side. "Marky, what _are_ you doing in here?" she called before the door was fully open. "It's not good for you to –"

The door swung open all the way, and the sight that met her eyes struck her like a stab to the heart. Mark was sitting on the floor, curled up into himself, a blanket hanging limply from one shoulder. A film was flickering on the wall; she vaguely recognized it as some footage from the previous New Year. The strange thing was that Mark was watching it with a hunger in his face, a kind of fear that she had only seen once before. Mark watched his friends with the same expression that Roger had once had on his face as he stared at the needle in his hands; as though his every thought was concentrated solely on praying that it would not go away.

"Marky?" Maureen said again, but it came out as something less of a sing-song cry and more like a terrified whisper.

The ray of light from the open door fell on Mark and he looked up, blinking owlishly behind his glasses. Maureen could see the glimmer of light on his unnaturally pale face, where tears had not yet dried, and suddenly Mark was no longer the compassionate, open-hearted man intent on remembering the world around him. Instead, he was the scraggly little Jewish boy, pale and gawky, who smiled only when he held his father's camera and when Nanette Himmelfarb held his hand.

Love and compassion for that little boy filled her heart to overflowing, and she walked into the room like an angel descending, stepping over Mark's prone form and turning the camera off. That was important, she knew. The camera was the outward source of his pain, and she knew that it was important to make that go away.

Mark whimpered as the picture went dark, and she kneeled next to him, gathering him up into her arms as he started to sob. He clenched her sleeves in shaking hands, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, stroking his hair, cooing soothing nonsense into his ear. Maureen was many things; a drama queen, certainly, a brat, a nuisance, and a source of unexpected wisdom. And ever since their Angel had left them, she had learned to be an angel in her place. So she held Mark with a tenderness few had ever seen, waiting patiently until his sobs subsided into whimpers and he pulled away from her embrace, looking up into her eyes with a childish wonder.

"Maureen?" he asked breathlessly, as though he had only noticed her for the first time. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I was at the Life with the rest of them, and breakfast was over, and Mimi and Roger were glued to each other as usual, and Joanne and Collins were talking about something technical, and I was _bored_. Mimi said you were here and you might want some company, so –"

"No," he interrupted hoarsely, shaking his head. "Not _here _here. I mean here –" he waved his hand in a gesture that encompassed the loft and the entire world beyond. She looked at him, nonplussed. His voice dropped to a whisper, "– _alive_."

Her horror must have shown on her face, for he continued quickly, "I had a dream – I think it was a dream, oh God, I just – you and Joanne were –"

"It's okay, honey," Maureen reassured him, her voice shaking slightly. "I'm here, everyone's just fine, I promise –"

"But for how much longer?" he breathed violently, shocking her with his sudden anger. "Mimi and Collins, they died from AIDS, and Roger just sort of – faded – there was a car crash, and you and Joanne –" He was shaking again, and Maureen was not certain whether it was from fever or from fear. "I just – I don't want – I don't want to be alone, all alone –" his shout dropped to a hoarse whisper, " – all alone –"

"Of course not, baby," Maureen murmured. "You never will be, I promise. Even if –"

"Don't give me any of that bullshit about you being here in spirit," he choked out. "Life doesn't really _work_ that way, and even if it did, it wouldn't be good enough, you'd still all be gone –"

"Life doesn't work as logically as your dreams, either," she replied fiercely. "You could die tomorrow, and leave the rest of us alone. You can't mourn people before they're dead, Marky, you can't let yourself die before you're done living. We're not running to abandon you, either!" She drew him into her arms again, hugging him fiercely. "If you think we won't fight tooth and nail to stay with you, then – then – well, you're more geeky and oblivious than I thought!"

That coaxed a smile from him, albeit a watery one. Encouraged, Maureen continued, pressing on valiantly. "And that stuff about being here in spirit – is it really bullshit, Mark? Has Angel left you?" he looked at her skeptically. "I mean _really_ left you?"

"Yes," he said obstinately, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. She stared at him, watching his expression melt into misery again. "No," he said quietly. "I still hear her sometimes – all the time, actually. She talks to me – in my sleep. Sings –"

"Me, too." She grasped both of his hands, rubbing his cold fingers, trying to warm them. "You see? A diva doesn't give up as easily as you'd think. Even if you are alone at the end, you'll hear us, laughing and talking and singing to you until you wish we really had gone for good."

Seeing that he was fighting back a smile, she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. "You've got a fever," she chided. "You should be in bed." She plucked his glasses from his nose, ignoring him as he tried to push her hand away.

"I'm so sick of people doing that," he yawned grumpily. "I can take my own glasses off, thank you. I'm a big boy."

"Or so you say," she teased, helping up from the floor and giving him a gentle shove in the direction of the bed. "Now go!"

"Yes, mother," he grumbled, falling onto the pillows that lay scattered in a heap, curling himself up into a ball. Maureen only grinned at him and gave him a cheeky wave, walking out into the sunny loft, shutting the door behind her.

Mark sighed and closed his eyes, feeling a small smile emerge on his own face as he drifted off into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

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The End!

For real.

I promise.

Maaaybee…

I knew from the beginning that Maureen was going to be the one to walk in on him. I don't know why, that's just the way it played out in my head. I rationalized it by saying that Maureen is the one Mark is closest to besides Roger, and Roger's not touchy-feely enough for the scene I wanted. Besides, if we take a realistic viewpoint, Roger would be much more interested in his girlfriend than his best friend's paranoia. (Although I don't know how much good it would do you to take a realistic viewpoint on a fictional universe… but hey, whatever. This is fanfiction, I can do whatever I want!)


End file.
